The Night of the Burning (9 page)

“Whee!” she shouted. “Try it, Devorah. There is some kind of bouncy straw inside here!”

I knew I should stop Nechama from bouncing on the bed, but I was too busy staring at the flowered curtains and the pretty pictures on the walls. This was where we were to
sleep?

Even better was to come. The boy gestured us to follow him, and he led us down the hall and pushed open the door to a big room. I peeked inside. Everything was white: white floors, white walls, and a gleaming white tub the size of a horse trough, standing on curvy white legs.

Nechama ran straight in and fingered with interest some little brass wheels at the end of the bath. I hurried in after her to stop her from touching the strange things.

“Aha!” said the boy with another grin, his face lighting up with understanding. “
On
, turn it
on
,” he commanded, showing me to turn one of the wheels to the left.

Whoosh!
Water rushed out of a gold-colored pipe and thundered into the bath. I jumped back. The boy doubled over in good-natured laughter. I stared at the indoor waterfall, and then I also burst out laughing.

“See here?” The boy pointed. “Hot. Very hot.” He pretended to burn his hand. “And this one is cold. Very cold.” He shivered dramatically.

My eyes shone. No more heavy pumps, no more icy splashing in the morning. I wished Papa and Mama could see the magical bathroom.

But a short time later, when we sat down to eat, I couldn’t bear to think about Papa and Mama. They would have fattened up handsomely, they would never have become sick and died if they had had even a fraction of this meal. Milk, hot tea, cheese, apples, slices of soft white bread stuck together with butter and jam, even cake with
slivers of nuts and bits of fruit in it. I ate until my stomach stuck out like a ball.

The next morning I woke to angel music: all the bells of London were chiming, leading and following in charmingly uncoordinated peals. “Nechama, wake up! Listen!” I whispered, and Nechama opened sleepy eyes and smiled back at me. “Let’s get dressed quickly,” I urged. What would the new day bring in this wonderful place?

After breakfast, Daddy Ochberg announced, “We will all gather in the writing room now. We have had donations of clothing, and they will be given out according to your sizes.”

But the best was hidden at the bottom of a sturdy steamer trunk of dresses. Daddy Ochberg reached in deep and lifted out a pile of big colored boards with bright pictures on them. He opened the top one, revealing many pages.

“A book!” I exclaimed.

Daddy Ochberg turned to me with a smile. “Are you more interested in books than in pretty dresses, mamaleh?” he asked.

“Mama used to let me dust Papa’s books sometimes,” I said softly. “There were only a few, but they smelled good, of leather, and the pages were so thin and soft.” I stretched out my hand and dared to touch. “I’ve never seen books like these, though, with colors and pictures.”

“And I’ve never heard you say so many words in a row.” Daddy Ochberg smiled. “How would you like to be our
librarian?”

I didn’t know what a librarian was, but it had to have something to do with those books, so I nodded my head vigorously.

“Come and stand next to me,” Daddy Ochberg said.

I stumbled past the other children, my cheeks flaming at the whispers and stares.

“Devorah Lehrman,” he announced in a formal voice, “is now our librarian, and all books given to us will be kept under her bed. When any of you wants to read a book, you may go to her and ask to choose one. Then you must sign your name on a piece of paper and you can keep the book for three nights. That is what we call a library.”

“Devorah’s only twelve,” objected Itzik. “Why is she the lyberian?”

“Because she loves books and she is responsible,” replied Daddy Ochberg firmly, putting an arm around my shoulders. “I know she’ll take care of things.”

My face was on fire and my hands were sweating. “I can carry them all to my room myself,” I said, and I didn’t stop to rest until I reached my door, even though my fingers were numb with the weight. Kneeling on the floor, I sorted out the books on my bed. Those with many pictures and only a few big words were obviously for the little children; those with tiny, difficult English writing and only one single picture at the beginning, with a thin sheet of tissue to protect it, must be for Laya and Pesha’s age group.

As for myself, I was determined to look through them
all. I started immediately with the easiest ones, poring over the shiny pages bearing mysterious pictures, such as a boy flying through the air, a rabbit dressed in a blue jacket, and a baby boy living in a den of wild animals.

Nechama didn’t return to our room until almost dinnertime; she had been trying on new dresses and coats with her friends in their room. She twirled around a few times to show me her finery, brushed down her curls, and left again. But a few other children came in timidly, and I helped each of them to choose a book and write down their names. I even tried to read a story to little Malke, making up the words I couldn’t understand by looking at the pictures.

Suddenly a very loud bang made Malke flinch next to me. I hugged her in fright. Then I laughed. “It’s just the door, Malke! The wind blew it open against the closet.” The door swung closed again, and as it did I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the back. Myself? Was that me? There was a girl sitting on a soft bed, holding a colorful book in her hand. She had long wavy hair falling around her face, and she wore a relieved smile, which made her look quite pretty. I blushed and hugged Malke again.

When I was with the books, I was safe. And not only safe, I was rich and royal, brave and beautiful. Papa’s stories rested at the bottom of my memory while I found new legends, with pictures of creatures that Mr. Bobrow told me were called dragons and ogres and fairy godmothers. The monstrous Cossacks and devouring fires of my nightmares
were replaced during the day by muscled gladiators in leather tunics and the volcanic lava that covered Pompeii hundreds of years before. I lay on my stomach, my thick braid clenched between my teeth, escaping into the pages.

But my shyness returned when we were visited by kind London matriarchs and even entire families with elaborately dressed children who stared at us curiously. It was Nechama, fearless and smiling angelically, who was often chosen to greet the visitors with her best English sentence: “Gut-day, my naam is Nechama.” One little visitor was holding a doll in exquisite lace clothing, and Nechama kept staring at it. Afterward she announced firmly, “I’m going to have a doll like that in South Africa.”

I didn’t say a word, but I promised myself that somehow I would replace the doll Nechama had lost on the Night of the Burning.

One morning, Daddy Ochberg woke us early. He seemed flustered. “Up you get, rise and shine, get yourselves washed and dressed. And see that you clean behind your ears, too, and comb your hair perfectly. We are going to have special, very special, visitors.”

Off he hurried. Within minutes, the rumor jumped from room to room: the King and Queen of England were coming to see the two hundred orphans who were on their way to South Africa. The King and Queen of England were actually coming to visit us.

Nechama squealed and jumped up onto her bed to dance a little jig, but my own excitement made me shivery and quiet. I was going to see a real live king and queen, just like the ones in the storybooks.

At breakfast I couldn’t eat, not even my favorite white toast and scrambled eggs. Afterward we were led to the hotel lobby and organized into a tight group.

“Let’s practice the English anthem one more time!” Mr. Bobrow ordered. “Sing with all your might now, children. Remember, since you will be citizens of the Union of South Africa, the English king is your king. Let me hear—”

At that moment Daddy Ochberg hurried in from his lookout position outside the revolving doors. I had never seen him dressed so smartly, or looking so nervous.

“The King and Queen are coming. Stand at attention and make me proud of you all,” he announced.

He rushed outside again, straightening his cravat, and a long moment later the hotel manager and Daddy Ochberg led in a bearded man and a serious-looking woman in street clothes, followed by a group of more men and women. I kept my eyes on the revolving doors, determined to see the golden King and Queen at the exact moment of their majestic arrival.

But Daddy Ochberg was lifting his arms in a signal to begin. The other children burst enthusiastically into a rendition of the anthem. “God save our gracious King,” they trumpeted, and the man and woman smiled very
slightly.

The woman wore a soft cream-colored dress and a hat with a little veil over her face. The man had a close-cropped beard like that of the late Czar. It was not until the woman gracefully accepted a bouquet of flowers from giggling little Faygele that I was forced to admit the truth. These kind but ordinary people, without even a hint of a tiara or a rich purple cape, were the King and Queen of England.

“I’m tired,” I whispered to Mr. Bobrow after the couple had been ushered out by the hotel manager, who walked bent at the waist in an ingratiating bow. “May I go to my room, please?”

As soon as I was alone, I threw myself on my bed and sobbed bitterly. I had been so excited to see royalty, and they had seemed so ordinary. Why, on High Holidays back home, the butcher’s wife wore fancier dresses than this Queen of England. I blew my nose and reached under the bed for a book about a real king with an ermine cape and a bejeweled crown. Now, that was a king before whom I’d be honored to sing.

A few nights later, on my way to the big white bathroom, I passed the hotel room that served as an office and headquarters for Daddy Ochberg and Mr. Bobrow. Hearing their voices inside, I pressed my ear against the door and eavesdropped.

They were talking about arrangements a certain ship
was making to have kosher food aboard for us. Then Daddy Ochberg gave a big sigh of relief. “Two more days and we will be on our way home. I will only rest easy when I deposit the children at the orphanage.”

I slipped back into my bed and lay shivering even though it wasn’t cold. It was time to say yet another goodbye—to this magical city. I wanted to stay in London, but not because it would ever feel like home. No, I was scared, very, very scared of the strange land we were venturing to, even farther from my village.

“Domachevo. Domachevo,” I whispered again and again until I fell asleep. But instead of dreaming of the warm stove in our home, the familiar muddy lanes, the pine forests along the Bug River, I dreamed of wild flames leaping. Aunty Friedka’s limp body. Wet knives. The Night of the Burning.

August 1920

At night, Aunt Friedka sat in Papa’s chair next to the stove, mending Nechama’s stockings or making a skirt for me out of Mama’s old apron.

Orphans, I thought bleakly. Since Mama went to be with Papa, Nechama and I are orphans. What a horrible word. I moved a little closer to Aunt Friedka. But we’re with Aunty, in our own house. Aunty is our … rock. Aunt Friedka’s lips were pursed tightly and her eyes were unreadable, her face as closed as it had been since they had finally brought Uncle Pinchas home from the army.

In the six months that had passed since Mama died, Nechama had been unable to sleep without both Aunt Friedka and me holding her, so we all slept together in Mama and Papa’s old bed. One night we were beginning to prepare for bed when Aunt Friedka said, “Shh!”

We were startled by her sharp tone. Then I heard it, too. Far away, people were crying out and there was the
sound of thunder. No, it wasn’t thunder, it was horses’ hooves. Men were shouting and women were screaming.

With a crash, the door flew open and a voice yelled through the opening, “Pogrom! Hide! Run away! Pogrom!” And the voice was gone.

Aunt Friedka was on her feet in a bound, like a mother lion. “Food? Money? No, just go.” With one shove she pushed us through the open door, rushed out herself, and slammed the front door behind us.

My mind was racing, jumping. I had my family photograph safe with me; I carried that always in my pocket. “The candlesticks, Aunty!” I shouted. “We must save Mama’s brass candlesticks.”

Nechama joined in with a wail. “My doll!”

“There’s no time. Save our lives!” my aunt shouted back. Her face was open again and I read it clearly: Aunt Friedka was frightened, terrified. My stomach dropped so fast I almost vomited.

Aunt Friedka was barricading the house with crazy haste, blocking the door with a huge wooden bar that was usually stored just under the eaves and locking it with a key that hung on a chain she always wore. I’d never thought to ask what the key was for. She grabbed Nechama with one hand and clutched my wrist with the other, a cold fierce grip that felt like iron. Then we ran, away from our home.

“Where to?” I gasped as my legs pumped.

“Away from the noise. To the shul.”

Ahead, in the light of the full moon, I saw whiteness
everywhere.

Am I going mad? I thought. I see snow but it’s not falling from the sky. It’s not snow, it’s … Floating through the air and piling up in drifts were thousands and thousands of feathers. I turned my head to stare as Aunt Friedka pulled us along. Feather beds and feather pillows lay slumped on the ground. They had been sliced open and tossed out of the windows of Jews’ homes. Broken chairs and splintered tables had been smashed by axes or hurled onto the rutted path.

“Oh God, oh God,” Aunt Friedka whispered, and Nechama whimpered. There was no one in sight, and only the sound of screaming from somewhere behind us.

Then we heard a roar in front of us, and Aunt Friedka suddenly changed direction. She pulled us off the road and down a muddy alley and half fell, half knelt behind a wooden fence. It was the same cracked fence where Nechama and I would hide with our girlfriends while we waited for the boys to come out of school.

We peered between the planks and my eyes widened. Twenty, maybe thirty peasants swarmed in and out of the synagogue, their excited faces lit by the flaming torches they held high. One of them carried an open bottle of vodka and many were unsteady on their feet. They were looting the synagogue with loud determination. Some dumped piles of worn prayer books into the mud. Several gleefully rattled the silver bells and silver chains and engraved shields used to decorate the Torah scrolls.